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Harasta terminal I must admit is not my favourite place in the world, but once again I was to find myself there on the start of our most recent break. Destination: Palmyra, and expectations were high after what we heard people and guide books say about it. We arrived and were instantly rinsed by the taxi driver who took us into town. "how much?" "25…each." This is bearing in mind it should have been 25 in total and there were four of us. We were however too hungry to care, and once we found a hotel (the Sun for 200 per night, nay bad and up on the roof in a small hut sort of thing which seemed cleaner than what we were accustomed to after Lattakia) we headed to the nearest nourishing emporium with our new adopted travelling companion.
Ah yes, upon leaving Damascus we were three if counting me as a compos mentis adult. By the time we arrived at our hotel our lives had collided with a Kiwi butcher called Quintin, and due to the lack of an Emlyn who was sorely missed in his absence, we merged paths and purses. We dined in fine local establishment which was made outstanding only by the comment of the waiter upon learning that we were students from Scotland. He pointed to a man on a motorbike of unusually strong ginger complexion and said, "you see that man, he could also be from Scotland!" When we laughed he leaned in and earnestly continued, "No, seriously, his father was away and his mother was alone when he was born - it's possible!"
Palmyra itself was strangely disappointing. I think we have been spoilt for ancient desert civilisations and experiences recently, so Palmyra really didn't stand out that much, though I must say that the pillars were quite impressive, as was the underground tomb of the three brothers which we succeeded in getting to and entering for free thanks to a friendly Arab guide who adopted us with his group of 50 something year old Germans. We also had the good fortune to meet a couple of mutual friends and one of their families who was visiting. 'Twas randomly pleasant, especially when we managed to shamelessly squash ourselves into their microbus and drive up to the citadel overlooking Palmyra for the sunset, which was enjoyable even if the view was somewhat murky and marred by a large radio pylon not unlike an austere soviet Eiffel Tower.
We did the decent thing and decided to walk back from the citadel instead of utilising the kind and British politeness of Tamsin's family. It was great fun scuffling down the steep slope at dusk, and slipping down the scree during the only slightly alarming descent reminded me of our time in Petra, though fortunately there were no angry security men at the end to apprehend us. Realising that that, in fact, was most of Palmyra, we decided to head away first thing the next day.
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